Annie’s small garden backed onto ours, an overgrown path separated us. When we moved in, we fenced off our patch. Annie said, Is that to keep you in or others out? She laughed, confused. Her village had once been brim-full of pitmen with whippet children and strong, chatty wives; shared spaces between houses, allotments and pigeon crees. Doors stayed unlocked.

For twenty years we lived alongside Annie. Neighbours, we smiled greetings to each other, from a polite distance.​Annie’s away now. Hospital, care home, then she died. It still makes me cry to know we never got to say goodbye.